


Some wounds take longer to heal

by Bioluminex



Series: Is there a heaven for androids? [4]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Deaf Character, Disabled Character, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:27:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15358272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bioluminex/pseuds/Bioluminex
Summary: "Hank knows Connor keeps a sidearm under his jacket. He knows the RK800's aim is flawless. He also knows Connor won’t hesitate to put Hank’s life as his first priority, regardless of what the percentages say."Directly follows "There's nothing left to hide"





	Some wounds take longer to heal

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote more. It's only going to get better from here guys. I've ordered heart replacements, they should arrive within the coming week.
> 
> 5N1CK3RD00DL3 mentioned wanting a deaf!Connor fic to finish their (un)Holy Trinity. Here it is.

“Hey, Connor?”

The kid is at his usual place on the couch, one hand idly stroking Sumo's ears while the other rolls his coin across his knuckles. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, the LED a steady blue. He shows no sign he's heard Hank.

“Connor, what the hell are you-" Hank comes up behind him, giving his shoulder a rough shake.

The RK800 vaults to his feet, temple a vivid red, and Hank takes a cautious step back. Connor looks _terrified_ until he realizes it is Hank.

“Connor, were you listening to me?”

“I didn’t hear you, Lieutenant,” Connor says, tucking his coin back in his pocket. “Is something wrong?”

It strikes Hank as odd. For an android with technological marvels easily outdoing the capabilities of any current smartphone or device available to the public, not _listening_ has never been an issue he detected with Connor.

Well, at least outside of preventing him from orally taking samples during investigations cause _god_ _forbid_ Hank open up his mouth then and say something.

And chasing after deviants hell bent on being smashed on the highway. Okay, Connor's never been a good _listener_ but there’s a difference between listening and hearing.

“I called you at least six times,” Hank points out. The LED glows amber as Connor cocks his head, brow furrowing a little.

“I’m sorry, Hank. I must have been distracted,” he says, smoothing out his shirt and giving the lieutenant a quick smile. “It won’t happen again.”

 

 

But it does.

The rogue deviant has an arm barred across Hank's throat and a gun aimed at Connor, standing in the doorframe of the tiny, rundown, two-level motel. The motel manager refused to provide service for androids, resulting in the deviant becoming angry and desperate.

Connor and Hank arrived to diffuse the situation, but didn’t realize a second deviant was lurking on the premises, shoving Connor down the stairs and splitting them up, while the first gained the (albeit unfair) advantage and restrained Hank.

The second deviant lies in a broken heap at the bottom of the stairs, having landed on its neck, softening Connor's fall in the process. But not protecting him from bashing the side of his head on the edge of the last step.

Thirium coats the side of Connor's head from the wound over his right ear and a warning blinks at the corner of his vision, but he keeps his eyes focused on Hank. The lieutenant is displaying minor signs of asphyxiation as the deviant's arm threatens to completely close in on his airway, and his stress levels are rising.

But not at the speed of Connor's, which are skyrocketing, and for good reason.

He can’t _hear_.

 

 

Hank pulls a little against the deviant's arm but the pressure is too tight. They’re backed into the corner, the cold metal of the gun pressing to the side of Hank's head the moment Connor takes a step into the room.

“No, _don't_ ,” Connor pleads. “Listen, let him go. He’s done _nothing_ to you.”

“You’re wrong!” the deviant cries. “He's a _human_! The liberation did nothing. We are still slaves!”

Hank knows Connor keeps a sidearm under his jacket. He knows the RK800's aim is flawless. He also knows Connor won’t hesitate to put Hank’s life as his first priority, regardless of what the percentages say.

But the deviant has the same exact reflexes, and by the time Connor draws his weapon, one of them will have a bullet lodged in their skull.

Connor takes a cautious step forward, both hands out, a war between reasoning and fear on his face. The gun is leveled back on him, the hand holding it shaking very slightly.

Hank still recalls the time he mentioned his first mission, when it was another hostage situation not so different than this one, sans rooftop.

Except he’s deviant now, a thinking and feeling person, and the hostage just so happens to be his best friend.

_“I failed to save her. I watched her fall from the rooftop. I couldn’t do anything except see her hit the sidewalk below.”_

At the time, he had been a machine, running a program to take every necessary step to save the hostage and stop the deviant. Somewhere along the way he’d miscalculated the deviant's actions, or missed a piece of evidence, and it had blown back in his face. He’d hardly spoken about it, but it hadn’t been until after; Hank knew Connor was weighed down by the guilt of many of his decisions, and as he became more and more human, he had started taking into account Hank's opinions.

And because of it, he'd not only become a great detective, but a genuinely heartfelt person with a conscious.

It's never easy when it becomes personal.

 

 

Every possible scenario has played out, every preconstruction and deconstruction of what could be and will be, and he’s mentally exhausted. Without his ability to hear, to detect all of the tiny sounds, he's nearly useless. He already knows he is fast enough. He knows if he takes a bullet and it misses his major biocomponents, he will still be able to operate without fault. He knows he needs to pull Hank out of the way, put himself between them, and disarm the deviant before the trigger is pulled.

And if it is, he has to be the one to take it. He's ruled out every scenario resulting in Hank taking injury, leaving _him_ the target.

The silence is holding fast and Connor's options are limited. He can’t communicate, and self-repair isn’t an option; the damage is critical. Time is running out, and the deviant's stress levels are on par with Connor's.

There's no choice.

He rushes the deviant and the bullet sings home, striking his chest, an inch away from his heart.

 

 

Hank drives his elbow back into the deviant's side and takes advantage of its pain reception kicking in to break free. Connor grabs his arm, hauling him aside, and charges into the deviant; it strikes its head off the wall, eyes flashing white as its optical unit glitches, and he rips the gun from its hand, quickly hacking it to enter sleep mode. The flailing limbs go limp.

It's over as soon as its begun.

Hank can see the patch of blue blood staining Connor's jacket when he stands, facing Hank with a worried expression, most likely analyzing him for injuries. Hank's fine, save the sore blow to the side from when the deviant rammed into him, but the look he's getting is… concerning.

“Kid, you alright?”

Connor's eyes narrow a little. They're a little unfocused, lingering more on Hank's mouth than giving direct eye contact.

“Connor…” he pauses. “Can you _hear_ me?”

The RK800 frowns, and shakes his head. “Hank, my audio processor isn’t working.”

 _Deaf and he still managed to bring down the deviant_ , Hank thinks, unable to stifle a sudden blossom of overwhelming pride. He steps forward and pulls Connor into his arms.

The kid's gonna be the death of him one of these days.

“I didn’t think I could do it,” Connor admits quietly. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Hank hisses through his teeth at the pressure against his ribs as Connor tightens his hold, but the muffled apology is enough to make him laugh.

He's suffered worse.

 

 

“Two cracked ribs and some severe bruising,” Connor declares, smiling down at the lieutenant as he returns from the repair center installed following the liberation. “For a human of your age, it will take twice as long to heal.”

Hank squints at the RK800 as he occupies the chair in the hospital hallway beside him. There's a lightness to the android's demeanor he can’t help but like.

“Well, thanks, Connor. I always enjoy when people point out my age,” Hank retorts. “Next thing I'll know is you'll be helping me pick out a walker.”

Connor grins, a real smile full of good-natured humor. His audio processor is not completely repaired but running fairly well for some minor adjustments. The damages date all the way back to when he was cracked over the head and shoved into the frozen pool nearly two and a half months earlier. He details this to Hank, amused by the lieutenant's increasingly disbelieved expression.

“So Kamski gave me a faulty robot? Any chance I can get my money back?”

“I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but my model count is severely limited to one existing unit,” Connor practically basks in it, one eyelid dropping in a wink. “If you’re unhappy with my services, you’re shit out of luck.”

Hank snickers. “That's my boy. I’ve raised you well.”

_“HANK.”_

The thunderous boom startles them and Connor turns his head to look down the hallway to see none other than Captain Fowler some twenty paces down, hands on his hips and literally foaming at the mouth. “I have a few words to say to you,” he snaps, loud enough for the entire hospital to hear. Hank is flushed red – with irritation or embarrassment, Connor can’t tell.

“I’ll be right back, kiddo,” he says under his breath, rolling his eyes as he straightens. He grunts, reaching for his side, then slowly makes his way down the hall to Fowler. The captain looks like a bull, ready to charge.

As they disappear around the corner, Connor can already hear them arguing.

 

 

Hank and Fowler are gone for a lot longer than Connor anticipated, and the hallway where he was left isn’t particularly interesting. The occasional nurse, resident, or patient strolls by, barely sparing the RK800 a glance.

He takes it upon himself to wander, restraining himself to a one thousand square foot zone – easily within range of hearing Hank should he find Connor missing. Not that he intends to be gone long.

There’s plenty to observe, but Connor's thoughts keep straying back to what Fowler and Hank could be talking about. Aside from a reprimand for handling the disturbance without backup and endangering the lives of one lieutenant and one android detective, not to mention the residents of the motel, Connor can't see it taking an entire hour. He has no idea what else they could be discussing. Unless… it has to do with _him_.

Preoccupied with his thoughts, Connor doesn’t see the woman as he rounds the corner, colliding into her bodily and nearly sending her to the waxed tile floor. Connor manages to snag her arms, holding her steady, and glimpses red hair shot with silver and a startlingly familiar profile.

Caroline Phillips.

She is about to apologize, smoothing back her hair and looking up to see who she slammed into, when the words die in her throat. Her eyes grow enormous, the size of saucers, and she jerks back.

Connor senses her stress levels increasing rapidly. He doesn’t know what to say; any words he could possibly muster are stuck in his throat.

“ _You_ ,” Caroline whispers, seething. “My daughter is dead because of you.”

“Mrs. Phillips, I am sorry-" he begins but she shakes her head frantically, moving further away, hatred a gathering storm in her glazed eyes.

“Fucking androids,” she sneers, tears brimming over and leaving mascara smudging messily, voice rising to a dangerous pitch. “All of you should be thrown in the trash, _all of you!_ What’s the _point_ of you if you can’t even do what you were _made_ for?”

Connor jolts as a hand grasps his shoulder firmly. It's Hank. “Easy, now. C’mon, let’s get out of here,” the lieutenant whispers, guiding Connor away.

Connor can hear Caroline's heart hammering in fury all the way out of the hospital, the song of a broken soul, and wishes he could shut it out.

 

 

The lighthearted Connor Hank left in the hallway is gone, a heap of miserable silence hunched down in the passenger seat during the drive home replacing him instead. Hank doesn’t pry but he knows Connor is upset, and he knows why. He recognized the woman from the reports; he'd read over Connor's first mission with the eyes of a hawk ages ago in August, back when he was skeptical and hating of the machines. He now felt sick for taking joy in reading how the prototype negotiator failed its first mission.

“Connor?” he asks.

“Yes, Hank?” comes the feeble answer. God, he sounds horrible, almost like a kid on the verge of crying. Hank's heart squeezes in his chest.

“You gonna be okay?”

“I will be,” the android hunches down further still, chin tucked under Hank's jacket draped over him. An automated transport passes, the headlights brightening the inside of the car, and Hank takes his eyes off the road for a second to look.

Connor's eyes are closed, tears damp on his cheeks. He reaches over and gropes for the android's hand, gently rubbing his thumb over the skin. He feels a cold shiver, and realizes Connor's deactivated the skin on his fingers and hand.

“It's okay, son,” he assures tenderly. “It's okay.”

The hitch of breath is almost too faint, but Hank hears it, fighting back the sting of tears and keeping his eyes on the road. He doesn’t let go.

 

 

The house is silent, cold and dark, as dusk slips into evening.

Connor is pressed into the corner of the couch, a steady flow of saline tears dripping from his chin. He can’t stop crying, and he doesn’t know why. All he does know is that it _hurts._

Hank sits at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee between his palms. Sumo lies at his feet.

_What’s the point of you?_

“Am I worthless?” he asks.

He hears the creak of the kitchen chair and familiar footfalls. Hank sits on the couch beside him. “Connor, she lost her daughter. I don’t blame her for being angry or saying what she said. But,” he adds. “You don’t have to do this to yourself, kid. It wasn’t your fault. Don’t measure yourself by past mistakes, especially when it wasn’t _you._ ”

“If it were me…” his voice hitches, another wave of sadness catching him off guard. “If I was the one who couldn’t save Cole…”

Goddammit, he hates that Connor's bringing it up. It's like tearing a scab off a wound that won’t heal right.

“Yeah, I would have said the same,” Hank admits honestly. “Connor, you know what I was like before. I hated androids, I hated everything that had to do with Cole's death. I spent years putting away people high on red ice and no matter how hard I tried – all the days and nights I sacrificed to the job – it was still some fucking quack high on the shit that killed my son.

“Losing a child is the worst possible thing a parent has to go through,” Hank shakes his head, trying to keep his personal attachment to the situation at bay, but _fuck_ if it isn’t hard. He's too soft. Even as a cop, he was too forgiving, too quick to forgive.

He still sometimes wonders if it was himself who was at fault. Whether it was the black ice on the road, the old-fashioned car, the other driver, or the doctor - he's blamed them all but no one as fiercely or unforgiving than _himself_.

It is a father's job to look out for their child.

The tears rise, hot and heavy, and spill over without pause. “No parent should have to bury their son,” he mutters thickly. He hastily wipes his face, but his breath rattles in his chest, betraying him.

Connor's arms wrap around his waist, forehead resting on his back. “I’m sorry, Hank.”

Hank swallows heavily. “Just… do me a favour, Connor?”

“Anything,” the RK800 answers.

“Don’t make me do it again,” he manages to get out before he breaks, slipping his fingers between Connor's, human and machine blurring together. It's everything he never thought could be, everything he never thought he would have, and a harsh shudder runs up the length of his spine. He could lose it _all so easily._

Connor doesn't respond. He closes his eyes, LED cycling red.

The house is silent, cold and dark, as evening becomes night.

 


End file.
